The sun was three fingers above the horizon. It was going to be close.
Walking in to work yesterday morning my fighter pilot buddy greeted me with his usual greeting, “Been flying lately?”
For the rest of the day the urge to slip the surly bonds buzzed around my head like a persistent horse fly. There was no getting rid of it. Until now. Heading home. My trusty ’97 Mustang had its head and was topping the mild Texas rises a little brisker than usual. The wind was buffeting the rag top and portended a sporty flight. I was thinking, “Count me in.”
When the engine started the sun was lower, two fingers above the horizon. Time was flying and i needed to be. I didn’t look at the clock any more, we’re going flying.
Taxiing out, ‘brisk’ was still the operative word. The windsock was busy but almost right down the runway. The takeoff and quick climb was non-Hertzler-esque using significantly more power than the normal 4 gph would provide, as was the entire flight. It was about eleven minutes to the lake and 4500 ft altitude was good. It was somewhat unusual to be holding the canard down in a climb. It was also unusual on a sunset run to hold a heading very long. Now the sun was right over the instrument panel with the reflection off the nose making for a brilliant double glow. Holding up a couple of fingers blocked the glare. But wrapped in the rippling willing steed around me, escorted by two proud winglets, it was glorious. Instead of being blinded, maybe you can see further…
At the lake the turbulence was a bit intimidating over the ridge lines secluding our little lake cabin. So I coasted almost power-off across the ridge and through a couple of turns around the place. A few weeks ago I was sitting down there in the back yard and counted a trail of over a hundred vultures pass almost effortlessly overhead. At that time I humorously wondered where the heck they were going, as if they had somewhere to be, like an important meeting maybe? Now I was soaring with them, a little higher… they are beautiful in the air… spectacular. Now I know, I know where they were going – they were flying the sunset!
Another turn around the river valley. I widened the turn a little and followed the creek as it twisted and turned going seven miles length in three miles span. Great for jet skis. Below, the water was high but our floating dock was still in place. No visible damage, all good, mission complete. I turned to follow the ridge lines and four cove fingers around the lake to the dam. I floated past the cap rock along the ridge lines that was once the ocean floor. I made a turn and took in the entire valley that had been washed out after a meteor hit down in Mexico, some centuries ago I hear. That’s why there are rocks the size of cars that had tumbled down to our yard from the ridge above, also eons ago, thank goodness.
I coasted through the turbulence over the ridges and over the dam, gliding some and working some, coasting down where our creek tumbles into the Brazos River. I arched up through another turn, finally pulling away from the allure and vista of the Texas Hill Country.
Oh yeah. The sun! One finger above the horizon. Not good. There’s still plenty of avgas so forward on the throttle and climbing fast with a little forward pressure on the stick. Let’s get cooking. Crossing over the thick string of headlights on I-20 west I humorously wondered where they were all going. The horizon opened up ahead and the lights of Fort Worth and Dallas sprinkled alive. I remembered the night years ago, I was flying a friend’s Long EZ just past sunset and the space shuttle trailed a brilliant golden contrail across the sky streaking toward Florida. I think they got to Florida and landed before I entered the home pattern here.
Now I was flying over just about the same spot as that night. Again, a tinge of heightened awareness of the life of flying these planes crept up on me and I got chills up my sides and arms and up my neck into my scalp. I watched the airport approaching and struggled to hold off through the pattern entry and the landing, not struggling like struggling, but struggling to grasp and hold every moment, to see and hold on, hold on to the feel, the feel of the wings that seemed to hold on to every molecule of lift, holding on…
This morning my fighter pilot buddy had his routine greeting, “Hey, been flying lately?”
I said, “…Yes.”
Bill James
Fort Worth VariEze